


Strange Weather

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bets, Contracts, F/M, HP: EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Loss of Virginity, Romance, Spells & Enchantments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when you mix a bunch of eighth-years, quite a lot of alcohol, and a game of unusually high-stakes wizarding poker…</p><p>Written for Hawthorn & Vine's Treasured Tropes fest, September 2012.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Weather

Strange Weather

Saturday evening  
21 November 1998  
10 PM

 

The air in The Three Broomsticks was hazy with smoke from an assortment of pipes, hookahs, and cigarettes, not to mention the residue of a thick, black, still faintly noxious issue from the hearth earlier in the evening. The flue had been clogged with dead leaves and a couple of ancient, abandoned birds’ nests, the result of an unusually heavy rainstorm the night before, and in need of a vigorous clearing out. This Madam Rosmerta did with an irritated sigh and a wave of her wand, eliminating the obstruction and Vanishing the acrid smoke that had suddenly billowed out of the hearth, blanketing the pub.

The pub hummed busily. Custom was especially good tonight, Madam Rosmerta was pleased to note. This had partly to do with the fact that it was the first Hogsmeade weekend of the term. That a new rule was now in place didn’t hurt business either. For the first time in the history of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, there was a class of eighth years, which meant that the most senior students at the school were now eighteen years old and comfortably past the legal age of consent. This seemed to call for an additional privilege, something that would distinguish eighth-year students from those in their seventh year. Together with her staff of teachers and the Board of Governors, Headmistress McGonagall decided that amongst other perks, the oldest students would now be permitted to stay overnight in Hogsmeade when the more senior classes had their weekend visits there. That meant customers who would stay a good deal later and order quite a lot more drink, probably needing a room in which to pass out afterwards. Two of the inn’s seven upstairs bedrooms were already occupied. Rosmerta fully expected she’d fill the others before the night was out.

The eighth-year class was relatively small, but it appeared that virtually all of them had found their way to The Three Broomsticks over the course of the evening, and now, a fair number were well on their way to blissful inebriation. From her place behind the bar, Rosmerta scanned the room and smiled. A few heads were already cradled, unconscious, on tables, but most of the students were still going strong, and happily, the night was still young.

“Oi! Madam Rosmerta! Another round, if you please, of that marvellous stuff we’ve been drinking! What d’you call it? Oh yeah...” a young voice slurred happily, after a quick conference with his friends. “Faust’s Something-or-other... Excellent stuff...”

The call had come from a corner of the establishment draped in deep shadows and lit only by the guttering light of two candles. A clutch of mostly eighth-years were crammed into a makeshift booth made of two high-backed wooden settles dragged from their original spots to face each other, a pair of pitted, old tables in between. The call had been for Faust’s Full-Bodied, jokingly dubbed “Friend of the Devil”: a particularly rich, dark stout known for its enormous, frothy head and for knocking the drinker on his or her arse faster than any other ale – faster, even, than the equivalent amount of Ogden’s Old. This table had been consuming Faust’s steadily, chased down with a variety of other spirits, for the past hour. 

Cocking an eyebrow, Madam Rosmerta chuckled. “Sure you can handle another round, Mister Zabini? Looks to me as if you and your little friends are already thoroughly sozzled.” 

Several voices rose in protest from the table in question, and Rosmerta smiled to herself. Never underestimate a teenager determined to get him/herself totally blotto. No obstacle, most particularly common sense, would stand in the way. Of course, her question had been posed merely out of idle curiosity; she was only too happy to let them run up their bar tab. Most of them could now stay all night, and she dearly hoped they would. Glancing over at the till, she smiled again. It was nearly full. At the rate things were going, a replacement drawer might be required before the night was done.

“Archie,” she called, summoning the little house-elf in her service. “Bring up another case each of Ogden’s and Faust’s from the cellar. And one of butterbeer as well, please. Time to restock.”

*

It was certainly a curious assemblage at those two tables in the corner. Even Madam Rosmerta took note of this with no small amount of surprise. But perhaps, she thought, time had done its healing work, or at least enough of it, that the collection of Slytherins and Gryffindors now seated, loose-limbed, around two tables they’d pushed together, were following a sort of unofficially declared détente. She suspected, moreover, that this was far from the only quarter in which amends had begun being made. The Malfoy boy had offered her an overture of his own early in the term. He’d been genuinely contrite as far as Rosmerta could tell, and despite herself, she’d been moved, her earlier anger softened and eventually overruled.

He – the whole lot of them, really – had had a lot of growing up to do. They’d been forced to do it at warp speed, accompanied by unimaginable horrors and loss; she reckoned it was time to let the past go and allow them to be kids at school again, let them have a bit of normalcy for a little while at least, before the adult world claimed them for good.

 

_An hour earlier..._

_“Hermione! Over here!” Ginny Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown called and waved excitedly as their friend came to join them, rosy-cheeked and slightly out of breath as she squeezed in amongst her friends already sitting on the tall-backed settle._

_A full pint glass was pushed in Hermione’s direction and she raised it, giggling as a bit of foam covered her upper lip and then licking it off, her tongue curling around the creamy moustache until it vanished._

_“What’ve I missed?” she asked and then sighed. “Ugh! So annoying, having to stay behind to finish next week’s prefect schedules, all because Malfoy hadn’t got his bit done earlier!”_

_“At least he had to stay behind as well,” Ginny murmured slyly. She glanced at a nearby table where several members of Slytherin House now sat, heads close together in conversation. “Where is our Head Boy, anyway? Did he decide not to partake after all?”_

_Hermione shrugged lightly and took a swig of her ale. “No idea. Doesn’t matter to me either way.”_

_At that, Ginny’s eyes met Luna’s in a brief but pregnant glance, but they remained silent, merely sipping their drinks. This exchange was not lost on Hermione, however._

_“Look,” she told them all firmly. “I’m here to have fun, not talk about Malfoy of all people, yeah?”_

_“Of course, Hermione,” Luna replied, smiling sweetly. “Besides...” She paused, inclining her head in the direction of the pub’s entrance. “It would be awfully rude to talk about somebody right to his face.”_

_Four heads turned reflexively to look. There was Draco Malfoy, his own pale cheeks uncharacteristically flushed and his fair hair windblown, making his way through the crowded, dimly lit room. Running a hand through his wayward hair to pat it into place, he grinned as he approached the table where his friends sat waiting for him. Slipping into his seat alongside Blaise Zabini, his eyes lit on Hermione and he inclined his head in a lazy salute. His gaze was still fully on her a moment later, even after Theo had slid a tall pint glass towards him and he’d bent to take a pull on the frothy drink._

_“Unfinished business, Herms?” Ginny teased under her breath. “Of the prefect variety, I mean.”_

_Hermione coloured faintly, then rolled her eyes in exasperation. Would Ginny never leave her alone about Malfoy? It was really getting to be entirely too much at this point._

_“Ha ha,” she muttered, forcing a grin. “Really, Gin – enough, okay?” Sneaking a hasty glance in Draco’s direction, she discovered that he was no longer looking her way but instead, involved in an animated conversation with his housemates._

_Well, good. Right? Now she could relax._

_Never mind that only one table away, the boy with whom she’d been partnered as Heads (deliberately and, it would seem, rather perversely on McGonagall’s part) sat, cheerfully downing a glass of ale and now thoroughly ignoring her despite that rather promising start. It was all too clear what would happen next. He’d sink quite deeply into his cups, becoming completely oblivious to everything, most especially her. Either that or he’d forget that he’d broken things off with Pansy more than a year earlier and fall into her clutches once again, probably ending the night snogging her shamelessly in front of everyone._

_Crap._

_Well, if he could drink himself blind, so could she. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead._

_“Top this up, would you, Gin?” With a determined smile, Hermione held out her half-empty glass as Ginny stood to get the next round._

*

The conversation from the nearby Slytherins’ table was boisterous and jocular, the volume growing in direct proportion to the amount of firewhisky and ale being consumed. Eventually, the debate its denizens were engaged in grew sufficiently lively and booze-soaked that it spilled its borders, intruding into the earshot of its nearest neighbour.

“I don’t believe it,” Blaise was saying, shaking his head. “Not possible.” 

“Bollocks!” Draco replied confidently. “I assure you, not only is it possible, it’s a _fact._ ”

“So...” Theo began, “you reckon that every single girl in our year has already...”

“Given it up. Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m telling you.” Draco sat back in his seat and folded his arms, his smile both smug and enigmatic. 

“Yeah, well, how do you know, Malfoy?” Gregory Goyle raised his head from its cradle in his large, open palm, focusing blearily on his friend’s face. “Jus’ how do you know, anyway?”

“Reckon he’s gonna tell us he’s made the rounds personally,” Blaise snorted, tossing back a shot of firewhisky with an involuntary shudder. “That’s... what? Three from our house, two from Ravenclaw, one from Hufflepuff, and–”

“Three from Gryffindor,” Pansy remarked acidly. “Yes, I expect he has done.” 

All eyes swivelled expectantly in Draco’s direction.

He smiled serenely. “A worthy achievement, Pans, but no, I haven’t. Not yet, anyway,” he added, smirking. “Of course, the term is still young. But I don’t need to have bedded all nine myself to know. There’s a certain... how shall I put it... a certain _scent_ a woman gives off when she’s no longer a virgin. A ripeness. Something in her eyes that says ‘experience.’” He gazed around the table with a knowing grin. “Trust me on this one. There isn’t one girl in our year who isn’t giving off that signal loud and clear.” He looked directly at Pansy for just a moment, his mouth twitching in barely concealed amusement.

“Not that you ever minded...” she muttered darkly, glaring first at her drink, then across the table at her ex-boyfriend, and finally around the table at her other housemates. “Any of you lot!” Suddenly, being the only girl at the table _and_ an ex had become a distinct liability, the opposite of what she’d intended when inviting herself along. 

“Too right,” Blaise chortled, unaware of the silent but deadly communiqué that had just passed over his head. He tossed a peanut into the air, catching it deftly in his mouth, and then grinned. “Now you mention it, I have noticed something... ‘Course, it doesn’t hurt that they outnumber us this year, does it.”

“Only by one, but yeah, no complaints there,” Theo chimed in, raising his glass in an appreciative nod and then taking a healthy swallow. 

“But y’know,” Draco sighed, “in a way, it’s rather a shame, really. Takes all the mystery out of it. What’ve we blokes got to work for nowadays? It’s all handed to us on a plate.”

“I don’t recall _you_ ever saying no!” Pansy sputtered, astonished.

“’Course not. Are you daft? What red-blooded man in his right mind would? I am human, y’know, not made of fucking stone. But where’s the challenge? Where’s the chase? All the fun’s gone out of it.”

“Not quite all,” Blaise chuckled. “I beg to differ, mate.”

Draco laughed out loud. “Yeah, okay, agreed. Not quite all. But I do like a challenge. And not only that – where’s the girls’ pride and self-respect, eh? I always thought the nice ones liked saving it for the right bloke. All that romance bollocks aside, holding out gives them some real power in the proceedings. They’ve given all that up, haven’t they. And for what? So they can have sex like a man?”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

The voice, clear and sharp, rang out from the next table. The five Slytherins turned their heads as one to find Hermione, her expression fiercely determined and fixed on Draco. 

One eyebrow rose slightly, and then the corners of Draco’s mouth quirked in a small, amused grin. Leaning forward, he laced his fingers together on the tabletop. “Ah. Our esteemed Head Girl speaks. You disagree, I take it?” 

Hermione crossed her arms, pursing her lips indignantly, the better part of two pints of Faust’s Full-Bodied freeing her tongue of whatever constraints sobriety might still have imposed.

“Yes! As a matter of fact, I do! Women have been second-class citizens for far too long, here even more than in the Muggle world! We get paid less for doing the same work, job opportunities are much better for men, _and_ we’re expected to hold to a different standard of behaviour. Especially where sex is concerned. Why _shouldn’t_ a woman have sex as freely as a man? I don’t mean being careless or promiscuous – that’s just stupid for anybody – but being free to have sex before marriage _at all_. That’s really what you’re talking about, isn’t it, Malfoy? ‘ _Nice_ ’ girls, did you say? You think we should still be saving it for after we get married, or at least betrothed. Ugh, _‘betrothed.’_ Sorry,” she scoffed, “but I don’t buy the notion of such a hypocritical double standard! It’s positively mediaeval. At least Muggles have made _some_ progress on that score.”

“So then, little Muggleborn…” Draco said lazily, his smile deepening and becoming faintly wolfish. “I take it you’ve already put your money where that incessantly chatty mouth is? I wonder who the lucky chap could be?” He glanced about the room, taking in all the senior boys, most of whom could be found in various postures of drunken decline. “Must be somebody in this room, yeah? Unless you’ve a bloke squirreled away at home that you haven’t told anyone about?”

“As a matter of fact,” Hermione replied stoutly, her chin up, “there isn’t anybody. For the record, Malfoy, your little theory is absolute rubbish.”

Draco stared at her for a full thirty seconds, his mouth falling open slightly as comprehension dawned. Then, still staring, he grinned, rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet, and then walked to the Gryffindor table, stopping directly in front of Hermione. He was so close that he could smell her perfume, an intoxicating whisper of vanilla and coconut. “You’re lying, Granger. I can feel it. No way are you still–”

“A virgin?” She attempted to stand as well, but sudden dizziness threatened to Vanish her legs out from under her. Carefully lowering herself back into the chair, she looked up at Draco. “Well, I am. By choice. So you see, Malfoy, we haven’t all ‘given it up,’ as you so eloquently put it. But if I wanted to, I would. I mean, I will. If and when I find somebody worth my time. And no man, especially you, is going to tell me I shouldn’t!” 

The defiant “so there!” was so clear, she might as well have said the words. The other eight Gryffindors and Slytherins held their collective breaths, waiting for whatever might come next. 

Draco inclined his head, bending in a sweeping mock bow before returning to his seat. Then his mouth curled in an evil smirk.

“Prove it.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open a little, but she managed to collect herself. “Prove what?”

“That you’re still a virgin. Because I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“True. You don’t. But like it or not, your reputation is on the line now. _I_ say…” His voice dropped to a suggestive near-whisper. “… you’re a dirty little girl who’s had lots of very dirty sex and you don’t want anybody to know. You don’t want your precious, perfect, Head-Girl image to be sullied. I say you’ve lied. You say you’re telling the truth. But are you willing to back it up with cold, hard cash?” His short bark of laughter was cocky. “I don’t think so.”

The mouth of every student within earshot was now hanging open unabashedly, and the room seemed to have grown noticeably quieter. Malfoy really had gone too far this time. Spots of pink burned high on Hermione’s cheeks and she seemed to have stopped breathing momentarily; of course, it was shock and embarrassment. Such a reaction was only natural. But it was more than that. She seemed... intrigued. There was a light in Hermione’s eyes, and anyone who knew her could tell immediately that this was a challenge she was relishing for a number of reasons, one of which only a few suspected.

She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. 

“What exactly have you got in mind, Malfoy?”

“A friendly little wager. Game of poker.” He paused. “You _can_ play…?”

Hermione’s chin rose, her smile thin. “Naturally.”

“Right, then. I’m betting you are anything but a virgin. I’ll stake a Galleon on it for starters. What about it, Granger? You in?” He sat back, his smile lazily complacent and completely self-assured in its challenge.

There was a weighty silence for several seconds, during which time several covert glances were exchanged around the Gryffindor table. At last, Hermione caught Ginny’s eye, lifting her shoulders in a slight shrug. Without hesitation, the ginger-haired girl gave her a small nod. Luna did the same, and then Lavender and Parvati followed suit. A round of shots had been poured, and now Hermione reached for hers, downing it in one go and setting the glass on the table with a bang. Quickly, Ginny refilled it, the firewhisky glowing amber in the firelight from the hearth.

“I’m in,” Hermione replied evenly, all the while scrambling mentally to remember the rules, which were slightly different to those of Muggle poker. It had been a while since she’d played the wizarding version; occasionally, some of the girls had played a few hands on rainy Saturday afternoons in the dorms. She’d joined in on a few occasions but had grown bored fairly quickly, preferring her books. Now she wished she’d stuck with it – and that her brain weren’t quite so foggy all of a sudden. “Just us two? Or everybody?”

“Hmm...” Draco’s eyes gleamed wickedly as he considered and arrived at his answer. “Reckon I’d prefer this to be just you and me, Granger. Keeps things cosy, don’t you think? However, what say we open the betting to anybody who wants a piece of the action?” 

He glanced briefly at the crowd surrounding the two tables. They definitely had an audience now. The number had grown substantially since word of the bet had spread throughout the pub, the spectators watching the proceedings with hawk-like scrutiny. Not only that, it seemed that a fair number of them wanted in, judging by the simmering excitement in everyone’s eyes. Now, those who supported Draco shifted silently to stand behind him, a roughly equal number positioning themselves behind Hermione.

Lounging back in his chair, Draco gave Hermione a slow, self-satisfied smile, his eyes hooded. Then he turned his gaze in the direction of the bar. “Madam Rosmerta! A deck of cards, if you please! And another bottle of your best!”

*

It seemed that nobody within earshot and with any money at all in his or her wallet could resist the lure of this particular wager. Both camps of supporters were equally and quite firmly convinced that their player of choice would be the obvious winner, though for different reasons. Draco’s stellar reputation at cards was a known quantity, especially amongst the sixth, seventh, and eighth–year boys. Too many of them had lost their proverbial shirts in past games, and the painfully vivid memory of these trouncings remained. Besides that, there was Draco’s reputation with the ladies, which was legend. If he couldn’t sniff out the difference between a virgin and a girl who’d had some experience, nobody could. As far as the boys were concerned, he was a sure thing. Whatever they’d spent for drinks that night would come back to them threefold and then some.

Hermione’s supporters took a decidedly higher road in their reasoning. First off, there was the rather courageous public declaration of her virginity, not generally something a girl wanted known for fear of being branded a prude or frigid or just plain undesirable. Then, there was her staunch insistence that women had the absolute right to decide when and to whom they would offer themselves. It was the _principle_ of the thing, and the righteous fire in their bellies had them digging deep into their purses, eager to put the insufferably smug male half of Hogwarts in their place.

The two tables were hastily pushed together, and then Blaise volunteered to play dealer. This was immediately opposed by a chorus of voices, not only those of the Gryffindor girls seated at the table but also a fair number of spectators stationed behind Hermione. It seemed that Blaise Zabini had a well-known reputation for the sort of sleight of hand at cards that was not entirely above board. When Ginny proposed herself instead, the general consensus amongst the crowd was that while she was reasonably canny at poker, she was fair as well. In the end, the deck was pushed in her direction and she picked the cards up confidently, cutting the deck.

“Right,” she said briskly. “Ante up, you lot.” 

Before long, a pair of Galleons gleamed enticingly in the centre of the table, and Ginny nodded, satisfied. Swiftly dealing out five cards, face down, to both Draco and Hermione, she set the remaining cards next to the pot while the two players studied the hands they’d been dealt. Then she looked expectantly at Hermione who sat to her right, directly across the table from Draco.

Hermione sat back, frowning briefly as she studied the cards in her hand. A furtive glance at Draco revealed that he was watching her intently, though his demeanour remained carefully impassive.

The hand she’d been dealt wasn’t awful, exactly. However, “not awful, exactly” was hardly the message she wanted to send her opponent.

“Raise,” she sang out, plunking three Galleons down. 

One eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly, and then Draco grinned. His teeth gleamed, shark-like. “Brave little Gryffindor,” he murmured softly. “Or perhaps very foolish. What can you be holding, I wonder? Not, of course, that it really matters.” He gave his own cards a cursory glance and then, lips curling into a smirk, he scooped up five coins from his own stockpile.

“I’ll raise as well,” he drawled. _Beat **that**._

The jump the bet had just taken was a tad alarming, considering that Hermione’s own wager had already raised the stakes considerably. Swallowing hard, she turned a sweet smile in his general direction to mask her dismay. 

_Bugger. He’s got something amazing. He must do. Unless…_ He could very well be bluffing as well. Knowing Malfoy, he probably was. She slanted a covert peek at him. He was lounging back in his seat comfortably, a pleasant and perfectly innocuous smile on his face. When he caught her looking, his smile deepened. And then he winked. It was a teasing, playful wink, but it was something else as well, something more. His eyes remained on her, a faint, suggestive smile lifting his lips, for several long moments afterward, and this scrutiny had her squirming in her seat. _Gods_. Over the years, she’d seen him direct that precise look at other girls and wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end. 

If Malfoy was trying to throw her off her game by flirting, he was succeeding spectacularly. Girding herself, Hermione held out her glass for a refill and took a bracing swallow. The firewhisky blazed a searing trail down her throat, pooling in her belly like a small, molten reservoir of Dutch courage and inflaming the itch between her legs that had Malfoy’s name written all over it.

“Go on, then, Hermione, it’s your turn!” Lavender hissed behind her. 

A low buzz of speculative conversation rose up around her. Through it all, Draco remained serenely cheerful. In fact, Hermione thought, he seemed preternaturally calm and self-assured. Apparently, that same impression had struck both Ginny and Luna as well, because in unison, the two girls leaned over Hermione’s shoulders from behind to whisper in her ears.

“I don’t like the look on his face,” Ginny muttered in her left ear. “What are you going to do?”

“He’s bluffing.” Luna’s serenely confident voice was a low, comforting murmur in Hermione’s right ear. Suddenly, hearing those two words, she knew exactly what she wanted to do.

“Two cards, please,” she said firmly.

Plucking a pair of useless cards from her hand, she set them on the discard pile and Ginny obligingly dealt the replacements. Hermione scanned the hand she now held, biting her lip to stifle a grin when she discovered that she now held threes of wands, swords, cups, and scrolls. Four of a kind. Not bad at all. Emboldened, Hermione tossed back a slug of firewhisky and looked Draco directly in the eye.

“Raise.” Carefully counting out six Galleons of her own, she placed them in the pile in the table’s centre.

There was a collective and rather surprised intake of breath from friends and bystanders alike. The limit was two betting rounds per game. What would Malfoy do now? All eyes went to him in eager anticipation.

Leaning forward, Draco laced his fingers together, regarding Hermione with an expression that was both quizzical and amused at the same time.

“You’ve got balls, Granger, I’ll give you that. Didn’t know you had it in you. Well,” he sighed theatrically, “reckon I’ve got to make a move. Whatever shall I do? Wouldn’t want to cock it all up now that so much cash is riding on it. How much is in the pot again, Madam Dealer?”

Ginny shot him a dark look and then quickly counted out the coins. 

“Sixteen Galleons,” she replied, arranging the coins into four even stacks.

“Ah.” He sat back once again, folding his arms. “Don’t much fancy forfeiting such a tidy sum. Then again...” He turned his head, his eyes resting for a long moment on Hermione and then moving to the grinning faces of his supporters. He chuckled softly. “... the very idea is absurd.”

Laying three cards on the discard pile, he accepted their replacements, spreading them out in his hand and surveying them briefly. “Oh, and…” he added almost as an afterthought, “I’ll just raise that by another sixteen.” 

In one moment, the glittering pile had doubled itself, and now it sat, enticing and elusive, soon to be someone’s very rich prize. The reaction was universal: open-mouthed shock. Hogwarts had a history of late-night card games, and over the years, a lot of cash had exchanged hands; certainly, reckless or outlandish betting was nothing new to anyone. But the stakes had just taken a leap into what amounted to the stratosphere for most students, and in one way, of course, it wasn’t difficult to understand why. Draco Malfoy had more than enough funds to float this bet all on his own, but in fact, he also had money enthusiastically contributed by friends and acquaintances eager to see him beat the Head Girl _and_ take away a tidy profit on the deal. He was literally rolling in lucre. But he was also an exceptionally canny poker player, and everybody knew it. It stood to reason that even he wouldn’t risk such a prodigious bet if he didn’t actually have the cards to back it up. Even he wasn’t that good a liar.

Such a realization seemed to dawn on the whole crowd simultaneously. Once the significance of it sank in, all eyes zeroed in expectantly on Hermione. She had already reached much the same conclusion, but somehow, the idea of folding – just giving up – was too bitter a pill to swallow. The problem was, there was no way she could possibly cover the bet as it stood currently. She would just have to chance it and see what Malfoy would do.

“Call,” she announced with as much raw nerve as she could summon up. Suddenly, her pile of Galleons seemed woefully and pathetically small next to Malfoy’s more substantial one.

In the hush that followed those two words, Draco leaned forward, his elbows on the table, cradling his chin in the palm of one hand. One eyebrow arched upwards speculatively, and a tiny smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. 

“Do you, now? Sure you want to do that?”

Hastily, Hermione counted her betting stash. Ten Galleons were all that remained, and the apologetic shrugs that greeted her as she glanced quickly around at her friends and supporters said quite clearly that they were tapped out. 

Poker etiquette dictated that whoever had put up the higher bet was obligated to take back the difference between what he or she had put into the pot and the amount that the other player had available. Whether he would adhere to that courtesy remained to be seen.

“Ten. Ten Galleons, that’s it. And yes, I’m quite sure,” she told Draco flatly, and pushed the last coins she had towards the centre of the table with grim purpose, her gauntlet laid down. 

Just as she did so, he reached for the pot as well and his hand brushed against hers. His fingertips lingered on her palm in a light caress for just a moment. Then he withdrew his hand, counting out six coins and returning them to his pile. 

“Now we’re even.” His smile was careless, unconcerned. “Right, then. Let’s see what you’ve got, Granger. Unless you want to change your mind? Tell you what.” He smiled magnanimously. “I can be generous. Change your bet if you like. Either way, I reckon I’m about to get lucky.”

The double entendre was hard to ignore. Hermione could still feel the touch of his fingertips on her skin. His slow grin and hooded gaze were already raising fevered goose bumps down the back of her neck. Now, his openly suggestive words painted a sudden, rather graphic mental image that stopped her breath, clouding her brain. 

“Earth to Granger…” Draco’s eyes were dancing with amusement and a certain smug delight as he observed the blush flooding her cheeks. “Sometime tonight, yeah?”

A flurry of titters rippled through the group of bystanders ranged around the table. Ginny, Lavender, and Luna exchanged speculative glances and then Ginny leaned down close to Hermione’s ear.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she whispered. “Fold, and at least you’ll walk away with _something_.”

Ginny had a point. Folding was certainly the safest and most prudent thing she could do now. Odds were, Malfoy was holding a hand that would bury hers. If that was indeed the case and she called now, she’d lose her shirt, not to mention the money her friends had contributed to the cause. 

On the other hand… the notion of just giving up and walking away stuck just as painfully in Hermione’s craw now as it had done earlier. Not only would Malfoy win the entire pot by default, he’d spend the rest of the term reminding her of both her cowardice and her pathetically rubbish poker skills. He’d never let her forget it, lording it over her every bloody chance he got. The result? He’d be even more obnoxiously hot than he already was, and she’d hate herself even more for lusting after somebody who consistently managed to get her so thoroughly worked up.

“Change your mind, have you?” 

The lazy grin spreading across Draco’s face was positively triumphant. Hermione leaned forward, smiling back sweetly. 

“On the contrary,” she demurred, and then, with a confidence she tried very hard to convince herself she actually felt, she spread her cards face up on the table. “Four of a kind.”

Draco’s gaze dropped to the newly revealed cards, and then, very methodically, he turned his own cards over, fanning them out neatly in the centre of the table. Glancing at Theo, Blaise, Pansy and Greg, all of whom mirrored his smug grin, he sat back, folding his arms. There, plain as day, were a six, seven, eight, nine, and ten of scrolls. The cards seemed to gleam in the smoky light of the pub.

“If I am not very much mistaken, a straight flush beats four of a kind, does it not?” Favouring her with a cocky little smirk, he swept his winnings out of the table’s centre and into his own pile. “Sorry, Granger. I did give you a chance to back out. Now… unless my eyes deceive me, you’re skint, so I reckon we’re done for the night, yeah?”

Stewing in her own disappointment and disgust at letting herself be drawn into such a situation and then doing her bit to keep it going to the bitter end, Hermione could only nod dumbly. She could hardly bear to look at Malfoy just at the moment, much less speak. So she didn’t notice that he’d halted halfway through his exit from the table, hefting his winnings in a sack a supporter had procured from Madam Rosmerta, and turned back. Now he studied her, tapping his lower lip thoughtfully.

“ _Unless_ …”

Unless? Hermione raised her eyes to meet his grey ones, alight with a curious gleam. Gratefully accepting the consolation of a glass of ale somebody had pushed in her direction a moment before, she took a large swallow, narrowing her eyes.

“Unless what? I’ve nothing left to lose.”

“Oh, but you have. Something quite valuable, in fact. It would make excellent collateral… _if_ you’d care to play again, try to recoup your losses.”

The idea of recouping her losses was certainly rather attractive. Not only would she make back the money she’d lost – her own and that of her friends – but she could recover her battered pride into the bargain. And getting a bit of her own back with somebody like Hogwarts’ Head Boy would be especially satisfying. 

Quickly, she glanced around the table at her friends. They seemed nonplussed, as she was, and equally mystified. Luna gave a small shrug and shake of the head that seemed to underscore Hermione’s own confusion and scepticism. 

“What could I possibly have that’s so valuable?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.” Draco’s lips thinned in a dangerous smile. “My friends here know that I don’t generally give second chances, at cards or anything else.”

All the Slytherins nodded avidly at that pronouncement. 

“Too right he doesn’t,” Pansy muttered darkly, scowling into her glass of ale.

Ignoring her, Draco continued. “But for you, Granger, I’m prepared to make an exception. Because you have something I want. Assuming you’re telling the truth, that is.”

A small, electric thrill of apprehension coursed through Hermione.

“What?” she asked very quietly, her heart racing.

Draco paused for a moment, letting the drama of the ensuing silence do its work. Then he replied, and it was clear from his expression and the tone of his voice that he was dead serious.

“Your virginity.”

*

“You... you want...” Hermione began faintly, licking her lips. “But... _why?_ ”

“Crazy, isn’t it?” Draco let out a brief bark of laughter. “I know. The very idea. You and me, that way. Nevertheless, I do. Look at it this way,” he went on smoothly as Hermione continued to stare, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. “For you, it’s a win-win proposition, really. If you do actually take the game, you clean up. And you redeem yourself. Not a likely scenario, of course, but I reckon it’s possible. And if you lose, you still win. Think about it: it’s the one way you can prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you really are still a virgin. That’ll shut me up good and proper. I won’t have a leg to stand on. It’s one thing to win a card game. Money changes hands but it’s still your word against mine. Quite another to offer up cold, hard, irrefutable evidence.” 

His gaze dropped from her face down to her breasts, resting unabashed and with obvious appreciation on the cleavage visible above the scooped neckline of her red jumper. Noting the involuntary shiver his scrutiny had produced, he laughed softly, adding, “Well, presumably not cold or hard, anyway. So, Granger... what do you say? One more game? Let’s drink to it, shall we? I’ve never yet lost to a girl. You _could_ be the first.” Pouring out two generous shots of Ogden’s Old, he slid one across the table to Hermione and flashed her a cheeky grin. “Though I doubt it.”

Well, if that didn’t just take the biscuit! Malfoy’s arrogance and conceit knew no bounds, it seemed. She had a good mind to take him up on his outrageous proposition, if for no other reason than the pure satisfaction of knocking him down a peg or two. That really would be fun. And she could win this time, she was certain of it. How satisfying it would be, seeing his face as she took all the winnings for herself and left him with nothing. And as for that other thing... well... she couldn’t even begin to wrap her mind around _that_. As often as she’d entertained dirty thoughts about him, she’d never in a million years dreamt he might be doing the same about her. _Sweet Circe..._ Not that it would ever come to that anyway, of course, because losing just now had been a fluke, an anomaly. She just hadn’t been concentrating properly. She could do better, and she _would_ do, next time. He’d never yet lost to a girl, eh?

Hermione took up the shot glass, tossing back its contents in one swallow. Shuddering, she gritted her teeth and then smiled grimly.

“You’re on. But there’s a condition.”

Draco had just swallowed his own drink, letting out a small hiss as the whisky scorched a path down his throat. Now he sat back, an eyebrow raised curiously. This was something he hadn’t anticipated, and his surprise was evident.

“Oh yes? And what’s that?”

“Well,” Hermione said slowly, “it doesn’t seem fair that I’d be the only one putting something quite so valuable on the line. All you’d be betting are your winnings from before. It’s not enough. I think you should have to do the same as me, put something up that means a great deal to you, something you really prize above all things. Now what could that be, I wonder?”

“I can tell you,” came the slurred reply. It was Pansy, who was regarding Hermione with thinly veiled malice and jealousy but radiating pure malevolence in Draco’s direction. She had come to Hogsmeade for a good time and instead, she’d had her nose rubbed in the ultimate humiliation: watching her ex on the pull with the girl he’d always claimed to detest. He wasn’t even attempting to be discreet. Well, she would fix _him_. 

“It’s Malfoy Manor. The family seat. Ancient and glorious, loads of history, generations of Malfoys, blah blah blah. And I jus’ happen to know that his father,” she went on, stabbing a finger wildly in Draco’s general direction, “was forced to sign over control of the Manor to him when he turned eighteen. Part of the pardon deal the Ministry offered. Either that or they’d be stripped of everything. So as of now, though they’re carrying on as normal and nobody’s supposed to know, it’s all _his_. The lot. What about betting _that_ , eh?”

She sat back with a spiteful smile. Mission accomplished and fuck you too, Draco Malfoy.

The silence that followed was deep and penetrating. It was also decidedly short-lived. A mere moment later, as if the entire group had just done a collective double take, Pansy’s suggestion finally registering, there was a sudden, noisy eruption of laughter and taunts. Through it all, Draco sat, arms folded, calmly regarding everyone around him, their jibes seeming to wash over him like water over immoveable stones in a brook. At last, the hoots and snickers died away, and he smiled benignly. It was the smile of somebody who was feeling no pain. 

Cocking an eyebrow at Pansy now, he gave her a somewhat lopsided grin. “Marvellous idea, Pans. Thanks. No way Granger’s going to win, of course, but I must say, just the thought of her as my parents’ landlady is priceless. Hah! It’d be worth losing just to see the look on my father’s face! Well... almost.” He gave another quick snort of laughter, and, flashing Hermione a decidedly rakish smile, he held out his hand to her. “What’s the verdict, Granger? The Manor _and_ my winnings. I reckon that’s a pretty sweet deal. What about it?”

That Draco Malfoy would actually agree to such an outlandish idea had never seriously occurred to Hermione, and for a moment, she was speechless with surprise. Recovering herself hastily, she sat forward, pressing her hand to his. 

Comfortably warm skin met her palm, his fingers curling around her hand almost possessively and lingering there for a long moment. Raising her eyes to meet his grey gaze, she found a teasing smile flickering there. But there was something else as well, a smouldering undercurrent that said seduction and danger and was utterly magnetic. Those eyes bore into hers, fixing her to the spot, and in that moment, Hermione felt utterly naked. She was also fairly sure she’d just creamed her knickers. Pressing her thighs together in the rather desperate hope that a certain odour she now detected was apparent only to her, she schooled her mouth into a calm smile, gave his hand a shake, and then withdrew her own, now slightly sweaty, into her lap.

“All right, yes. Ready when you are, Malfoy,” she heard herself proclaim. Oddest sensation, that. Rather like an out-of-body experience, hearing all that reckless bravado spilling out of her own mouth. Because in truth, she didn’t feel the least bit ready. But neither was she about to back down. Not now.

“Excellent! Deal the cards, Weaselette.” Draco grinned expansively and held out his glass. “Hit me again, you lot. I’m feeling distinctly... _parched_.”

At “parched,” his eyes had travelled to Hermione once again, and this time, the message they held was even more blatant, the double entendre scant at best. 

Meanwhile, Theo had scrambled to top up Draco’s glass with a very generous shot of firewhisky, while Blaise had pushed a full pint of Faust’s at him from the other side. 

“Thanks,” he murmured, his eyes still on Hermione. “This’ll do nicely. For now.” 

And then, once again, he winked at her. Slowly, this time. So as to leave nobody – most especially Hermione – in the slightest doubt about his intentions.

There was, it seemed, a collective intake of breath, all the air in the room sucked in and then very slowly expelled from everyone’s lungs. A tense sigh rippled around the table, followed by a low buzz of whispered conversation, as Ginny swiftly dealt out a fresh hand to both players, stacking the remaining cards in the centre of the table. Had Madam Rosmerta built up the fire in the cavernous hearth? Suddenly, the room seemed awfully warm.

“Ladies first, by all means,” Draco drawled, picking up his cards and turning them over so that he could inspect them. A small, secretive smile flitted across his face for just a moment and then disappeared. 

So. It was down to her. Damn Malfoy and his chivalry, anyway. Hermione swallowed. Suddenly, she was feeling rather parched herself. Silently, she held out her glass and Luna obliged, filling it with some butterbeer. Hermione nodded gratefully. A clear head was what she needed more than anything else now, given the inebriated cloud already fuddling her brain.

Taking a long pull of the amber liquid, she reflected with amazement on how relatively clear-headed Malfoy still seemed to be, despite the prodigious amount of alcohol he’d already consumed. Either that or he was an even more skilled actor than she’d given him credit for. 

Two IOUs sat in the middle of the table next to the extra cards, one of them marked, rather crassly, “ADMISSION TO GRANGER’S PUSSY” (this was Blaise’s handiwork), and the other, “DEED TO MALFOY MANOR.” Pansy had gleefully penned that one. Both players had dutifully signed on the dotted line. Their markers were now official, contracts in a very real sense.

There was no going back now. Hermione let out a small, tremulous sigh and dropped her gaze to the cards she now held in her hands. Three of a kind: sixes of scrolls, cups, and swords. The rest of the hand was rubbish. Perhaps…

As if reading her thoughts, Ginny cleared her throat. “We’re down to the final round of play, so you both will have one chance to draw new cards. Hermione?” 

“Two, please,” Hermione replied firmly, accepting the new cards and laying the discards down. _Merlin_. Incredibly, she had a pair of eights now as well. Full house. She shot a furtive glance at her opponent only to discover that he was studying her, a faint smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. Catching her eye, he quirked an eyebrow suggestively, the tip of his tongue flicking out over his lips.

“Malfoy?” Ginny tapped the draw pile impatiently.

“Right, yeah… I’ll have three, Madam Dealer.” 

Ginny obliged, and Draco carelessly flipped three cards face down onto the discard pile. Gathering his new cards, he scanned them quickly and then looked up, his expression unrevealing beyond the trademark smirk.

The bets themselves couldn’t be altered. All that remained now was for both players to reveal what they were holding. Or, of course, there was always the option to fold, thus forfeiting the game. Hermione knew that Malfoy would never fold, though, not in a million years. 

He had asked for the maximum number of replacement cards. That could mean that his hand was crap, his arrogant little smile pure bluff meant to rattle her, get her to make a disastrous decision. A thrill of excitement shot through Hermione as she considered the possibility that she might very well win this card game after all. 

_Gods._ She really might win. Beating Malfoy would be sweet indeed. She could strike a blow for witches everywhere, starting here and now at Hogwarts. Beating Malfoy would put paid to the archaic and inherently insulting notions that girls were inferior in any way, that they needed taking care of, that they couldn’t – or more to the point, _shouldn’t_ – be independent and make decisions for themselves about how, when, and with whom to express their own sexuality. 

She’d win, recoup her losses from before, and... holy shit… she’d have Malfoy Manor to boot! What on earth would she do with it? She was only nineteen years old. Hardly more than a child. She hadn’t even taken her NEWTs yet, much less figured out what direction her life would take. Did she really want to be lumbered with a vast estate that was probably bogged down in all sorts of ongoing Ministry investigations and other complications? And besides, what did she know about running a huge property like that? Then, of course, there were the Malfoys themselves. Just the thought of Lucius, his expression perpetually glacial and imperious, had her stomach twisting. 

Suddenly it hit her. She just might win… and lose for winning. What did she _really_ want? What, in fact, had she wanted since the beginning of term? Quickly, she cast a glance at Draco, his blond head bent over his cards. As he did so, his mouth tightened for the merest fraction of a second, and she knew. The game was hers. 

By now, the tension had grown electric, conversations dying back to whispers and then to silence as everyone held their breath in anticipation of the outcome. 

Carefully composing her own features into an impassive mask, Hermione focused her attention on the cards in her hand, her heart beating wildly in her chest. She _could_ do this. A moment, then two… the edges of the numbers and images began to waver and blur... and then...

“Right, you two, show us what you’ve got!” somebody piped up, breaking the silence, and suddenly, an avid chorus of agreement rose all around the table. 

Earlier, Malfoy had said “ladies first.” It appeared that chivalry continued to be alive and well; at Hermione’s questioning look, he nodded, gesturing for her to go ahead. But even he could no longer hide his excitement and apprehension, now that the moment of reckoning had finally arrived. She could see it in his face; there were spots of high colour in his pale cheeks and an almost fevered look to his eyes. No doubt, she appeared very much the same; she could feel the telltale flush already creeping over her face and suddenly, there wasn’t even a drop of spit in her mouth.

Carefully, her heart thumping, Hermione spread her cards out, face up, close enough to the table’s centre that everyone could see what she had. 

“Pair of eights,” Theo said softly, letting out a low whistle. “That’s it. Okay...”

The attention now shifted to Draco. A tiny, very nearly imperceptible crease of tension in his forehead relaxing now, he paused, cards in a neat fan in his hand, and glanced slowly around the table. Rolling her eyes, Hermione bit back a snort of laughter. Ever the drama queen, wasn’t he. Even now. 

Meanwhile, even his fellow Slytherins were prodding Draco to reveal his cards, finally. They’d had quite enough suspense for one night.

In response, Draco chuckled. “Impatient, aren’t we! Keep your shirts on!”

Laying his cards on the table face down, he flipped them over with a dramatic flourish, fanning them out so all could see. Gleaming white against the dark wood were fives of wands, scrolls, and swords.

“I do believe three of a kind beats a pair.” Rising from his chair, Draco grinned jubilantly. This particular victory was sweet indeed, and he was clearly revelling in it. “I win.”

Amidst the raucous cheers and surprised gasps erupting all around him, he scooped up Hermione’s IOU from the table in a single, fluid motion and then held his other hand out to her. “Shall we? I believe you have a debt to settle.”

“Right now?” Hermione squeaked, a mortifying little quaver in her voice. Conjoined currents of excitement and nerves fired her veins, pulsing raw and electric. So hot in this room! She needed a breath of air. She needed to strip off this unbearably heavy jumper. A cool shower... something...

Swallowing, she stood a bit unsteadily, resting her hand lightly in his. Slanting a roguish smile at her, he gave her hand a squeeze, and instantly, the fire heating her skin and pooling between her legs intensified. 

Leading her over to the bar, Draco placed their joined hands on its polished surface, announcing matter-of-factly, “We’d like a room for the night. Any left?”

Madam Rosmerta’s mouth twitched in a private, knowing smile. She’d seen this one coming a mile off. No matter which way the game had gone, these two would need a room by night’s end or she didn’t know human nature nearly as well as she thought. In fact, she’d already set one aside, her nicest. It couldn’t hurt to encourage healthy customer relations, especially if the customer were the son of a still-wealthy and influential man. It was simply good business sense.

Plucking a large, brass key from a hook on the wall, she turned to Draco and Hermione and smiled pleasantly, dropping the key into Draco’s free hand. “Here you are, then. Room seven. Up the stairs and down the hall, last room on the right. Sweet dreams.” 

Sweet dreams indeed. She doubted there would be much actual sleeping going on. A good job her guest rooms had such thick walls. Chuckling to herself, Rosmerta turned back to the till and resumed her count of the night’s take.

*

The eight hundred-year-old staircase creaked in loud protest as they made their way to the upper floor, its mutterings an announcement to anyone within earshot that yet another couple were on their way to a drunken tryst.

With every noisy step, Hermione’s cheeks burned hotter. Her heart hammered crazily, threatening to leap straight into her throat and lodge itself there. Somehow, the last eleven weeks since the start of term had suddenly been reduced to this one surprising and completely unexpected moment in time. It was a scenario she’d thought about in moments of idle, entertaining fantasy – one that had even found its way into her dreams several times – but not one she’d ever imagined would or could become a reality. 

And yet, the moment had arrived. And it had done so with the startling revelation that the Head Boy apparently fancied her as well. Or something approximating that. Plainly, he wanted her. Her body, anyway. Enough that he now had Hermione firmly by the hand and was triumphantly leading his prize down a seemingly endless corridor to the last bedroom on the right.

Well, even if it was down to just the one night between them, she’d be rid of her damned virginity at long last, and the experience certainly promised to be a memorable one, if reports of Malfoy’s sexual prowess had even the slightest foundation. That alone would make the whole thing worthwhile. Who better to deflower her than the Head Boy himself? Malfoy was far closer to right than he could possibly have known when he called it a “win-win” for her. Thinking about this, Hermione’s lips curled in a tiny, secret smile as she followed Draco down the dimly lit hallway.

Struggling to fit the key into a hole that seemed surprisingly disobliging at first, Draco swore softly, rattling the key with increasing force. Curiously, his hands seemed to be shaking.

“Let me,” she murmured, gently pushing his hands away. Now, the key fit neatly into the lock, turning with surprising ease. Smiling, she handed the key back to him as the ancient wooden door swung open.

Lit with candles that flickered from the mantel, the bedside table, and a tall chest of drawers, the room appeared spacious and comfortable. In the massive stone hearth, a cheery fire sprang to life as they entered, as if on cue. 

“Handy,” Draco snorted. “Definitely helps the mood.”

“Not to mention the air temperature! It’s freezing in here!” Hermione exclaimed, shivering slightly and wrapping her arms around herself as she surveyed the room. 

“Oh, I expect we’ll find ways to keep warm,” he replied offhandedly, though there was a wicked glint in his eye as he strolled over to the large four-poster bed and plopped down on it, stretching his long legs out and heaving a contented sigh. Now he patted the space next to him. “Don’t be shy, Granger. I won’t bite.”

“No?” Hermione murmured to herself, her mouth twitching as she turned her head away. “Too bad.”

“What was that?” Draco’s ears had pricked up and now he leaned back against the pillows, a lazy smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “”My my, Granger. You are quite the surprise tonight. I am more than happy to oblige, you know.” His smile deepened, and she could see the white of his teeth gleaming in the firelight. “You have only to ask.”

He patted the space next to him once again, cocking his head and then turning his palm face up, his fingers crooked in silent invitation.

Wordlessly, Hermione walked to the bed, and when it appeared that he had no intention of moving over, she found herself crawling from the foot of the bed straight up the middle until she reached the place where his hand still rested. Now, he stretched his arm across the tops of the pillows against which she now leaned. He was so close – she could practically _feel_ his arm behind her – and goose bumps blossomed on the back of her neck, travelling down her spine as she imagined what he might do next. 

She didn’t have long to wait. In the next moment, his arm slid down the pillows until it came to rest around her shoulders in a light embrace. And then, his face dipped down and drew nearer, hovering in semi-shadows. Puffs of warm breath, smelling of peppermint and a good deal of alcohol, fanned her face. His skin and hair smelled invitingly fresh and clean, but there was a musky scent too, rich and deeply sensual, desire-driven, that seemed to come from his very pores. It was intoxicating. Breathing deeply, Hermione closed her eyes and waited.

Warm, full lips glanced over her mouth lightly, withdrew, and then returned, pressing passionately against her own. It was a moment she’d imagined often when indulging a private fantasy in bed at night or sneaking a furtive, sidelong glance at the Head Boy in their rooms or in class. Happily, the reality was better by far, and she surrendered herself to it. For a full sixty seconds, there were the delicious sensations of his mouth on hers, and then, quite abruptly, only chill, empty air.

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open in surprise and confusion. Draco had flopped back against the pillows, his own eyes squeezed shut. 

Oh gods, he was feeling turned off for some reason, that had to be it. Her breath, maybe, or the way she kissed... 

“What is it?” she asked, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not you.” He sighed wearily. “Look, Granger... it’s all right. You don’t have to do this.”

_You don’t have to...?_

“But... but I don’t understand. You won. I mean...” She swallowed hard, the words she attempted to summon dying away in her throat. “I agreed...”

Draco glanced away, the fingers of one hand raking through his hair. 

“No,” he said quietly. “I tricked you. What I mean is... I manoeuvred things so they’d turn out this way.” At the look of confusion on her face, he plunged on, his words increasingly blunt. “I want you, okay? I’ve wanted you since the beginning of term. And I decided that tonight, one way or another, I was going to have you. I wanted to be the one. I wanted to be your first.”

 _Wait..._ Hermione’s mouth dropped open slightly and she stared. “But... but you said...”

“I know what I said. It was bollocks, the lot of it. I wanted to get a rise out of you, so you’d take the challenge. I knew I could beat you and then get you to play me again, this time for much higher stakes.”

“My virginity,” she said slowly. “Which you _knew_ I still had. _Have_.”

“Yeah. Well, no, actually... I didn’t really know, not for sure. I guessed, that’s all. And... well...” Here, Draco’s face coloured slightly, and he stared down at his hands. “I hoped. I meant it when I said you had something I wanted. But not like this.”

Suddenly, everything seemed to be crashing down around Hermione like a house of cards. A conscience-stricken Draco Malfoy was the last thing she wanted right now. Finally, _finally_ , she was on the brink of having her cake and eating it too: with the pleasurably expert assistance of the boy she’d secretly fancied for what seemed like ages, she could finally kiss goodbye her probable – and wholly dubious – status as the last virgin in her year at Hogwarts. And now of all times, irony of ironies, Malfoy chose to grow a pair and do the right thing. It just wasn’t fair! And it would not do. Not now, not when she was so close.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” she told him firmly, shaking her head. “A deal is a deal. I have to honour my end of the bargain, and so do you. My marker amounts to a magical contract. As such, it’s binding. You know that. I appreciate your honesty, I really do. But I agreed to give you my virginity, and I intend to keep my word.”

The look on Draco’s face was priceless. She’d never forget it. Incredulity (shock, really), dawning hope, and elation had mixed together, leaving him open-mouthed and finally – as her words really hit home – grinning, the old cockiness back in full force, but with a difference: what lay ahead that night would be all the sweeter now, buoyed by the knowledge that he had, in fact, made the decent gesture. He’d told her the truth. And it had got him precisely where he really wanted to be. This startling realisation was written all over his face.

The urge to laugh out loud with delight was strong, but Hermione fought it, keeping her expression carefully neutral and calm. She wasn’t supposed to want this, and certainly not as badly as she did. Besides, her nerves were already seriously frayed by mounting excitement and anticipation. She desperately needed him to take the lead tonight, calmly and without reservations. Best to keep up the pretence just a little longer.

Forcing herself to sit very still, Hermione held her breath as Draco approached her once again. This time, she kept her eyes open, watching wide-eyed, her heart thudding in her chest as he drew near. His hand closed over hers, drawing it into his lap as he leaned in, and then he kissed her again.

There was a single, extraordinarily soft kiss – just enough to leave the taste and feel of him tingling on her mouth – followed by another and then another, until all of them melted into one, continuous joining demanding satiation and somehow becoming hungrier with each touch of their lips. 

That kissing could really be like this was a revelation, astounding and truly miraculous. If one could fall headlong into another person, that was what was happening to her, Hermione thought dazedly as they finally came up for air. If this joyful, electric oblivion were the rabbit hole, she would gladly make the leap. But the time for coherent thought was over, because Draco had begun unbuttoning her jumper, a single-minded and decidedly lusty look in his eyes. 

Swiftly working his way down to the final button, he parted the jumper, slipping it down her arms and tossing it to the floor. And then Hermione remembered. She was wearing an old, plain, white cotton bra, comfy but hardly what anyone, especially Malfoy, would consider sexy. Gods, her granny bra! What would he think? 

Draco was undeterred, whatever he may have thought of Hermione’s underwear. In fact, he seemed not to have even registered what she was wearing, looking instead like a little boy about to unwrap the birthday present of his dreams. He eyed her wolfishly and then reached behind her to unclasp the bra, which found its way to the floor alongside the jumper in three seconds flat. 

And now Draco sat back and simply looked. And looked. The intensity of the desire in his eyes brought a slow blush from her cheeks down to her chest, warming her breasts and flushing her nipples a deep rose colour. 

“Beautiful,” he breathed reverently. One hand rose, fingers trembling slightly, and he reached out to touch her left breast. Delicately, almost tentatively, he ran the tips of his fingers around the outer portion of her breast, inscribing a delicate circle on the sensitive flesh while moving ever closer to its centre. Lightly brushing the pad of his thumb over first one nipple and then its twin, he teased them again and again; beneath his touch, they firmed, and Hermione was quite sure there could be no more exquisite torture devised by man.

It was becoming hard to catch a breath, so incredible were the sensations Draco was producing with his talented hands. So when he bent his head and flicked the tip of his tongue over one pebbled nipple, Hermione was unprepared. The rush of heat and slick moisture between her legs was instantaneous and rather pungent, but at this point, embarrassment be damned; the wave of desire washing over her would not be stopped. It demanded immediate gratification.

“I need…” she moaned, barely coherent and not caring that she was gibbering. “I want… oh gods, please, Draco…”

Raising his head from her breast, where he’d been happily suckling, Draco grinned. “Tell me, Hermione,” he said softly. “Tell me what you want.”

Now there was the rub. Because, the truth was, she didn’t know precisely, never having done any of this before. All she knew was, there was a yawning need begging to be satisfied, a space that wanted filling; an orgasm more powerful than anything she’d ever achieved on her own was building deep inside her and it screamed for completion _now_. She didn’t care how he did it.

“Please!” she gasped brokenly, nearly weeping with the intensity of her arousal. “I need to come!”

Hearing that, he disappeared from view and she felt her jeans and knickers being peeled unceremoniously off, her legs spread wide. If the feel of his mouth on her breasts had been delicious, its next manoeuvres defied description. Marvellously efficient too, because within sixty seconds of his tongue’s arrival between her legs, she was screaming, her clit exploding in a rapture of powerful spasms. 

Even Draco was surprised. Looking up from between her legs, his chin shiny with her cum, he laughed delightedly. “You’re amazing, d’you know that, Granger? That has to be a record, even for me! Are you always so responsive?”

Hermione raised her head from the pillows, her smile beatific. “Uh huh. I mean, well… I can bring myself off pretty fast, if that’s what you mean. But it’s never been like… like _that._ That was… it was… _wow_ …”

Words failed her, so she merely smiled once again, sighing deeply. Draco grinned. Words or no, her message had come through loud and clear. Now it was his turn. Eagerly, he pulled his shirt over his head and then undid the zip of his jeans, stepping out of them and drop-kicking them to the other side of the room. For a moment, he stood by the side of the bed clad only in his underwear, regarding Hermione with an enigmatic half-smile; she smiled back drowsily, beckoning him closer. Boxers and socks were swiftly discarded, and now, completely naked at last, he climbed onto the bed, pulling Hermione into his arms. The skin-to-skin contact was warm and very comfortable, and for a few minutes, neither of them spoke or moved at all. 

It wasn’t long, however, before his own need to climax began asserting itself, brought on in large part by what was the second surprise of the proceedings for Draco. A small, delicate hand had found its way between his legs as the two of them lay peacefully together; now it commenced a light, exploratory caress of his inner thighs and testicles, fingertips burying themselves in the soft curls of dark-blond pubic hair. But she hadn’t yet touched his cock, now fully engorged and hard as stone, and this teasing was certain to drive him round the bend if she kept it up for very much longer.

“Merlin!” he groaned. “You’re a sadist, woman! Get on with it!”

His vehemence took Hermione by surprise and she snatched her hand back in dismay. “I’m sorry! Am I doing it wrong?”

“No, no,” Draco hastened to reassure her. “It’s just… well… here, look. I’ll show you.”

Taking her hand, he wrapped her fingers around the shaft of his cock, his own palm over hers, and began moving her hand up and down rhythmically. That small, warm hand of hers felt so incredibly good, and a small moan escaped him. Alarmed, Hermione glanced up quickly to find his cheeks flushed, his breathing grown shallow, and his eyes screwed shut in an agony of delight. When his hand fell away to clutch at the bed sheets, she carried on with renewed confidence and vigour, watching as his muscles tightened in growing paroxysms of pleasure. And then, suddenly, he batted her hand away, rolling the two of them over in one swift move so that she now lay beneath him.

“Now!” he gritted out, burrowing between her legs and then lifting her thighs, his fingernails leaving marks in her soft flesh. “Can’t... hold it... anymore!”

Hermione nodded, suddenly frightened and wildly excited all at the same time. _This was really happening._ Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her arms and legs around him, instinctively reaching down between their bodies to guide him in. She was ready, so ready… 

“I’m sorry…” he whispered in her ear, his warm breath tickling her neck and ruffling her hair. “This is probably going to hurt…”

His entry was swift and it hurt like hell, and soon after, there was a warm, sticky wetness trickling down between her buttocks and pooling on the sheet beneath. He stopped, holding himself very still and watching her anxiously. And then, miraculously, the pain subsided and the sensation of him inside her changed. No longer did she feel invaded. It was something else entirely now, something quite amazing. Relaxing, she smiled tremulously up at him and nodded, pulling him close once again, and he began to move, driving into her more deeply with each rhythmic thrust.

All at once, Draco gave a shout, guttural and ecstatic, and, in one final, convulsive spasm, emptied himself into her and then collapsed, his back rising and falling with his shuddering breaths.

At last, he rolled off her and they lay quietly for a while, sweaty and exhausted. Eventually, he reached over to smooth a curl from her damp brow. “See, what did I tell you? Win-win. Reckon you showed me, didn’t you,” he murmured, raising himself up on one elbow and gazing down at her. His smile teased, but there was a surprising tenderness in it as well. “Proof positive.” He scrutinised her carefully for a minute. “You okay?”

A sudden sensation, curious and wholly unexpected, of tears just behind Hermione’s eyes and clogging her throat stopped all speech. She merely nodded, attempting a smile and not altogether succeeding.

“Does it hurt?” he whispered, running a finger lightly down her arm. 

“A bit, yes,” she admitted with a rueful smile. “I’ll be all right, though. I’m sure it’ll pass.” 

His concern was touching and unexpected, but then, she was discovering all sorts of surprising things about Draco Malfoy tonight. 

“Malfoy,” she said abruptly. “I was wondering...”

Draco chuckled. “When aren’t you?”

“No, look, I really want to know. Is it true that you... I mean, how long...” 

“Have I fancied you? Is that what you want to know?” Pulling himself up into a sitting position, he plumped the pillows and then leaned back against them, crossing his arms.

That was it exactly. Hermione nodded. “Yes. Because you see, I...”

“Since... Merlin, I don’t know, seems like ages. Beginning of term, maybe even longer than that, for all I know. Reckon you didn’t have a clue, did you. _I_ didn’t even want to know, not at first. But after a while, hell… I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Lately, it’s got harder and harder, being around you. Because... well... you know...”

She did know, more than he could possibly realise. “But I thought… All these years, you’ve always disliked me. Hated me, even. You made that pretty clear. So... why now? I’m still me. I haven’t changed.”

“You have, though. All I know is, you seem... different. You’re fucking gorgeous, for one thing. Do you know that? Can’t imagine how I didn’t see it before. And bloody brilliant. No great surprise there, though I reckon maybe I can finally appreciate it. But even more than that, you’re...” He laughed, embarrassed. “Shit, it sounds so stupid...” 

“No, really, it’s okay!” she told him hastily. He couldn’t leave her dangling now! “What were you about to say?” 

“Nice. I was going to say how nice you are.” He gave a small, derisive snort. “If the others could hear me now... _‘nice’_... But you are. I didn’t expect that, not after the way I treated you all those years. And I know I don’t deserve it. Fuck, Granger, after what happened to you in my house...” He gave a slight, involuntary shudder as he recalled that night eight months earlier and turned his head away. 

“I remember that you chose not to give Harry or me away that night,” Hermione said quietly. “As for the rest... well... you were pretty awful a lot of the time, and that’s hard to forget. But I think people should always be given a second chance if they want it. And this year, it seems like maybe you really do. You’re the one who’s different now, Draco. Not me. Something’s changed. What is it?”

Her gaze was frankly curious. Once again, Draco surprised her. He met her gaze head-on, his own clear-eyed and unwavering.

“You weren’t here for most of last year. I saw things… not just at school, though that was bad enough at times, but at home, too… terrible things… I remember one night, lying in bed, I couldn’t get this one really bad image out of my head, something I’d seen a few hours earlier. Bloody business scared the living crap out of me. And I thought, if I can just get out of this alive… well, I made a promise to myself. Now I’m trying to live up to it, that’s all.” 

“Oh. I see.” Hermione’s voice was very small. “And… getting Head Boy…?”

Draco’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “That was McGonagall’s doing, of course. Reckon she’s like you about second chances. She seemed to think I could do with one.”

 

… _Now then, Mister Malfoy, I daresay you’ve experienced more than your share of dreadful things in the past two years. I know it was Professor Dumbledore’s intention to try and spare you some of that, to help you find a way out. I know, too, that essentially, you’d been coerced into the attempt to murder him. But given a true choice in the matter, if your parents’ lives hadn’t been at stake, I do not believe you’d have gone along with it. Albus Dumbledore always saw the good in you, and I concur. I’m quite certain he would want me to offer you the opportunity to put things right and make a positive contribution to the school in the process. The position of Head Boy is yours if you’re interested…_

 

Hermione considered for a moment. It made sense, all of it. It wasn’t terribly surprising that Headmistress McGonagall would have offered the Head position to him, nor that he would have welcomed the chance to make a clean start, given the events of the last couple of years. Anybody would in the circumstances, even Draco Malfoy. Or maybe, considering what he’d been through – and she realised that she really didn’t even know the half of it – especially Draco Malfoy. 

And it certainly explained the sense she’d had, ever since the beginning of term, that he’d returned to school fundamentally changed, more circumspect somehow. He hadn’t lost his edge, but he’d tempered it, redirected it. The brutish nastiness was gone, along with the lordly sense of entitlement that had always been so obnoxious. In their place – now that she really thought about it – there had been a certain watchful interest in her. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time, as if he were in close quarters with a fascinating new species whose habits he wanted to observe and document. Often she’d caught him staring at her; it had seemed a bit odd at the time, but she hadn’t ascribed much importance to it, as he hadn’t ever been rude or mean, just strangely captivated. Now she understood why.

Gods, how funny all this was, really, considering that she’d been carrying a torch for him as well, never dreaming her feelings were reciprocated. She needed to tell him.

“You know, Malfoy… _Draco_ , I mean…” she began shyly. “You could have said.”

“That I fancied you? Hah!” He let out an incredulous laugh. “You’d have run like hell the other way.”

“I wouldn’t have done,” she said softly. “I promise.”

Those six simple words stopped him cold, and now he stared at her, eyes wide with disbelief.

“What are you saying, Granger?” he asked slowly, sitting up a bit straighter against the pillows. 

Might as well go for broke. She’d already lost her virginity; there was nothing more to lose except for a bit of pride, and what was the value of that if it stood in the way of getting what she wanted? Besides, she would be an absolute idiot if she didn’t seize this chance while it was positively languishing on a platter, and Hermione Granger was no fool. Taking a deep breath, she plunged bravely on. “I’m saying that I like you too. I have done all term. Did you really think you won that second card game?”

Draco stared at her in confusion, and then his eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you on about? Are you suggesting I didn’t?”

Hermione’s smile was smug. “I’m not ‘suggesting’ anything. I’m telling you. I had the winning hand.”

“That’s not what I saw,” he insisted stubbornly. 

She giggled, shaking her head. “Of course not. You saw what I _wanted_ you to see.”

Dumbfounded, Draco continued to stare. “You deliberately threw the game? Why?” 

Merlin. Men could be so completely obtuse at times! “Because, you great prat, I wanted you to win. I wanted this… _you_. Now do you see?”

She’d spelled it out and now she waited, her breath suddenly trapped like a giant lump in her throat. But she needn’t have worried. In the next moment, he was laughing and pulling her close, peppering her face and hair with kisses. 

“Sure you weren’t Sorted wrong?” he teased, smiling into the soft cloud of curls that tickled his neck and chest as he folded her snugly into his embrace.

“It was a pretty ingenious idea, if I do say so myself.” 

“Brilliant, actually. And here I thought I’d been the one doing all the manoeuvring.” Moving her hair aside, Draco began pressing light kisses to the nape of Hermione’s neck. “Tell me,” he murmured, taking a generous whiff of vanilla laced with coconut. “What hand did you have? Before you magicked it, I mean.”

It took a moment for her to answer, because just the feel of his soft, supple mouth on her neck was distracting her in the most heavenly ways. “Full house,” she finally managed to sigh. 

“I demand a rematch,” he whispered, his voice muffled as he sucked avidly on her skin, fully intending to leave a quite spectacular mark. “And this time, no cheating. Because I intend to beat the pants off you all on my own.”

“Private game, or can anybody play?”

“Oh, very private indeed. Winner takes _all_.”

“All?” Hermione turned her head to look at Draco, a playful glint in her eye. His answering grin was thoroughly, deliciously evil.

“Every last stitch.”

*

The snow began falling at just past one that morning. An unremarkable occurrence, snow in November. It was the Scottish Highlands, after all.

The rather motley group of Slytherins and Gryffindors who had remained at the table after the spectators had drifted away were now in a delightfully boozy haze. Some had passed out completely, their heads cradled on the table or thrown back, mouths open. The others held occasional, desultory conversations consisting mostly of semi-coherent monosyllables, before lapsing back into silence.

By four, it was a blizzard. Those who were still marginally awake realised that nobody was going anywhere at that point, assuming that anyone still wanted to make his or her way back to the school. They’d all be staying the night, even if it meant camping out in chairs. Madam Rosmerta had reckoned two hours earlier that she’d best make provisions to house the lot of them, and so had begun Transfiguring chairs into camp beds and tea towels and napkins into blankets and pillows. 

When thunder erupted in great, booming waves and lightning illuminated the white snow sky with jagged forks of silver, those who were still conscious took note. Such conditions manifesting all at once were virtually unheard of. 

Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott were stretched out on a pair of rickety camp beds, woollen blankets pulled up to their chins, watching the storm through the mullioned glass of the inn’s ancient casements. After one particularly loud crash of thunder, Blaise chuckled softly.

“He said he’d do something dramatic once he'd popped her cherry. D’you reckon…”

Theo’s eyes had drifted shut, but now he struggled to remain awake just a little longer, focusing blearily in the general direction of his friend’s face and considering the question.

“Yeah. It’d be just like Draco to fuck with the weather. Master of the universe and all that shit.” Theo gave a snort of laughter at the thought, and somebody nearby hissed a loud, irritated “ssh!” 

“Anyway, yeah…” Theo continued, dropping his voice low. “This is his doing, all right. I’d bet on it.” 

Just then, the sky lit up bright as day, followed by an earth-shaking thunderclap, snow swirling heavily and obliterating the street and everything in it in a massive sea of white. The two boys snickered quietly. This was apparently a fuck for the record books – no, make that for the ages. And knowing Draco, they’d never hear the end of it. Best get some sleep, then, while they still could.

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/albums/q162/miriamele3/?action=view%C2%A4t=1337645300962.jpg)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and big hugs to my incomparable beta, mister_otter! As always, her astute observations, detailed responses, and ongoing support were invaluable. Thanks also to bunney, who generously alpha-read an early draft and gave me some very helpful feedback. Much appreciated, Carol and Krissy! xoxo
> 
> I don’t have a clue who did the beautiful manip above, but I want to acknowledge and thank that talented artist. This image of Draco and Hermione is perfect, exactly the way I’m picturing them in this fic.
> 
> Disclaimer: I make no money from this story. Only the original plot belongs to me.


End file.
